


Something Wicked

by Turcote



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-07-08 23:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19878031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turcote/pseuds/Turcote
Summary: The year is 1851 and Aziraphale and Crowley are both sent by their respective sides to investigate reports of a new spiritualist movement in London. The situation quickly spirals out of control and it's up to Crowley to rescue the angel from unexpected danger.





	1. Chapter One

It was a crisp autumn day in 1851, and Aziraphale felt extremely put out. Before this assignment had come down from Above, he’d had the entire day planned out. He had a box of first editions from an estate sale just _waiting_ to be sorted out and mended and shelved. Not to mention, there was a new bistro just down the street he had been eager to try out. Unfortunately, all of that had been cancelled the moment he received the directive from heaven.

Aziraphale sighed and slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat as he walked toward his destination. He supposed he shouldn’t be so irritated -- it had been quite some time since heaven had given him a task at all. Now that he thought about it, this probably was the reason they’d asked him in the first place. Busy work just to make sure that when heaven told him to jump, Aziraphale would ask how high.

He scowled into his scarf. Well. Maybe he could get this over with as quickly as possible, send up the paperwork, and start cracking into those first editions by morning.

Aziraphale rounded the corner, pulling a slip of paper out of his pocket and holding it up to compare against the address printed on the front of the house. Yes, this was the place. As it turned out he’d hardly needed his notes at all, considering the large, hand painted sign prominently displayed on the sidewalk, reading:

MR. LUCIUS BLACKWATER, MEDIUM, SPIRITUALIST, AND DIVINER OF THE VEIL BETWEEN WORLDS

The sign also featured a portrait of a serious-looking young man, palms held out, and with eyes closed as if actively communicating with said spirits. It was all a little pulpy for Aziraphale’s tastes, personally.

A small crowd of people were milling about outside, obviously waiting to attend the event. It was a mix of men and women, all of whom looked extremely well-to-do, and there, in their midst... Aziraphale found himself doing a double-take at a figure that was standing -- or, lounging -- slightly apart from the rest of the group. His conclusion on second glance was the same as the first; there was no mistaking that lanky form, or that _very_ distinct lounging.

Crowley was leaning against the outer gate like it was a comfortable chair, legs stretched out and shoulders resting against the wrought iron. He looked very fashionable in a closely tailored black suit, and his hair was longer than the last time that Aziraphale had seen him. Now it was just past shoulder-length, gathered loosely in a tie at the nape of his neck. A few of the auburn strands around his face were almost golden in the afternoon sun, and the dark glasses below somehow conveyed complete and utter boredom.

Something inside of Aziraphale flickered at the sight of the demon, standing there long-legged and nonchalant. It had been a while since they’d last seen each other and Aziraphale started to take a step toward Crowley, to call out his name -- but stopped himself before even the first syllable escaped his lips.

Heaven had sent him. Were they watching him? Aziraphale highly doubted it; the other angels usually preferred to avoid Earth as much as possible. But still...how would it look if he gave in and rushed over to the demon? He could just picture how heaven would view the eagerness in his voice, the sincere desire to hear Crowley say his name or, even better, call him ‘angel’ in that way that somehow managed to be both flippant _and_ sincere.

 _That_ thought certainly stopped Aziraphale in his tracks. Of course he wasn’t eager to hear Crowley say his name or call him ‘angel’. How ridiculous. Aziraphale had just spent too long cooped up in his bookshop. Maybe he really did need to get out and socialize more…

“Aziraphale! Fancy meeting you here. This doesn’t really strike me as your sort of scene, yeah?”

Snapping out of his thoughts, Aziraphale saw Crowley striding toward him. Crowley no longer looked bored and in fact, looked distinctly...pleased? The flicker inside Aziraphale’s chest gave another brief flutter, and he suddenly found that thoughts of heaven were drifting away. After all, they had been the ones to tell him to come here, so it was hardly his fault if Crowley just happened to be here as well...right?

“Crowley!” Aziraphale could feel a smile creeping across his own face now, unbidden, but certainly not unpleasant.

“As it happens, I’m here on business, not pleasure. There were reports of a new spiritual movement, so Gabriel asked me to take a peek and see what it’s all about…Say--” He narrowed his eyes in what he hoped was a convincingly suspicious glare. “Is this all _your_ nefarious doing? If that’s the reason I’ve been dragged all the way across London, I swear--”

“You swear, angel? What, to thwart me?” Crowley grinned. “As entertaining as that sounds, I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone your celestial fury for another time. None of this is my excellent work; in fact, I was sent here to see if any of your lot were involved.”

“My lot!” Aziraphale sputtered. “Do you really think that angels don’t have anything better to do with their time than sit around with a bunch of humans and pretend to summon up ghosts?”

“ _You’re_ here, aren’t you? Don’t roll your eyes, honestly, this is good news for the both of us.”

“Oh? How so?”

Aziraphale did his best to put on an air of indignant exasperation. This was the usual sort of game they played, and Aziraphale had missed this casual back-and-forth. It was just so easy to talk to Crowley, to have these amusing little disagreements.

Crowley shifted on his heels, clearly feeling very pleased with himself.

“Well,” Crowley said, “It seems to me that both of our investigations are done.You can confidently report back you successfully thwarted me away from the scene--” Aziraphale could’ve sworn Crowley gave him a wink behind his dark glasses “--and I can report back to my head office that I did the same to you. Easy commendations for us both, and we get to avoid all of this nonsense entirely and go drink in your shop instead. Thoughts?”

That sounded rather lovely, actually. Aziraphale started to reply _oh yes, please,_ but stopped. The scene played out in his mind in a flash: they’d retire to the bookshop, open a few bottles, and fill each other in on their happenings over the past few years.

Aziraphale loved those afternoons together, drinking and laughing until everything around them felt warm and hazy and full of promise, but then...Crowley would leave. Then Aziraphale would be left alone in the bookshop, with only the faint, lingering smell of woodsmoke and cloves, and some empty wine glasses as evidence that Crowley had been there at all.

Right now, Aziraphale realized, was a rare opportunity. Both of them had been asked, no, ordered to look into this. So if he and Crowley were to spend time together here their head offices would hardly have reason to suspect that anything else was going on. Just two good soldiers following their orders, right? Then Aziraphale would get a precious few more hours in Crowley’s company… just in case he really was needed to thwart any of the demons wiles, of course.

Aziraphale tried to choose his next words carefully.

“As tempting as that sounds,” he said, “I think -- oh do wipe that smug look off your face, I hardly require your influence to want to spend time in my own shop -- I think perhaps we should stay here and see what all the fuss is about.”

Crowley looked dubious.

“Seriously? Isn’t all of this a little spooky for your tastes?”

Actually, the more Aziraphale thought it over, the more he was warming to the idea.

“I assure you, I can appreciate spooky just as much as anyone. I hang around you, don’t I? You’re about as spooky as they come, my dear. Besides! This could be fun.”

“Fun?”

“ _Yes_ , fun. The things that humans come up with! Let’s see what it’s all about, and then we can have a drink afterwards to, ah, debrief. What do you say to that?”

Crowley shrugged, the very picture of cool detachment, but his lips still quirked in the barest shape of a smile.

“All right, but I’m telling you right now if this get too dull I’m going to have show these people some real magic. Maybe start turning hats into frogs.”

“Hush, you will do no such thing.”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s elbow and started steering him toward the front of the house.

“Come along, it’s starting soon. Now, do promise me that you will be on your best behavior.”

Crowley flashed him a grin.

“All my behavior is best behavior, angel.”

A queue had started to form, leading up to the front door, and the two of them shuffled into line. The people around them were almost all engaged in animated conversation, talking excitedly about what they could expect to see this afternoon.

“--I had the opportunity to see the Fox Sisters in New York a few years ago and it was absolutely marvelous—”

“--heard that Mr. Blackwater has a direct connection to the spirit world, and that he--”

“--I do hope we’ll see something extraordinary--”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a little nudge with his shoulder.

“You hear that? See, I think this is going to be splendid. Maybe we’ll see something, you know,” he waggled his fingers in the air to illustrate his point, “--magical”.

“Aziraphale, you literally do magic every single day of your life.”

“Well, yes, but this is different...”

Now Crowley nudged his shoulder, directing Aziraphale’s attention from the people around them to the front of the line.

“They’ve started letting everyone in. Let’s go find some magic, shall we?”

They worked their way to the front of the line, miraculously pulling the right amount of currency from their pockets and handing it to a young man in a servant’s uniform.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “The show will begin in the parlor in fifteen minutes. Please help yourself to drinks from the kitchen, but do make sure you are back in time so as not to interrupt the demonstration.”

Aziraphale assured him they would, and the two of them entered the front hallway. Aziraphale passed a coat rack and paused to drape his scarf over one of the pegs, before passing into the parlor, which was large and extravagantly furnished. Numerous pieces of expensive looking art hung about, and one entire wall was inlaid with a huge, mahogany bookshelf that sagged under the weight of its many titles. In the center of the room was a large round table surrounded by chairs.

Aziraphale’s gaze went immediately to the bookshelves. Sometimes one could come across the most surprising pieces in a personal collection, and he wondered if there was anything here worth getting a closer look at...

“Go on then, I know you won’t be able to focus on anything else until you do,” said Crowley. “I’ll get us some drinks, shall I?’

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale replied, already turning toward the shelves. To be perfectly honest, it wasn’t exactly what he would call a spectacular collection (although to be fair, he knew that his own personal standard for what constituted a top-notch book collection was rather high) but there were at least a few decent old medical textbooks…

His mental cataloging was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat loudly in his ear. The owner of the throat was a large, mustachioed man who was looking down at Aziraphale with an expectant expression.

“Ah, hello?” Aziraphale said.

“And good afternoon to you!” the man exclaimed. He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder with one meaty hand, making him jump slightly in surprise. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around this area before! What is your name, good sir?”

“Um,” said Aziraphale. “My name is Mr. Fell, I --”

The man had now grabbed his hand and was shaking it with great gusto.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Fell. I myself am Baron Dalrymple, of the Shrewsbury Dalrymples, of course. I saw you admiring Mr. Blackwater’s collection and, as it turns out, I’m in the book business myself, and I thought you might be interested in hearing about a very rare manuscript that I recently acquired.”

“Oh?” asked Aziraphale. He was slightly dubious of this Baron character after he had spent entirely too long shaking his hand, but a potential new book source was always worth pursuing.

“Indeed! I happen to have in my possession,” The Baron paused, then continued surreptitiously, “the very first draft of Frankenstein; or, A Modern Prometheus.’ A very fine book indeed, would you not agree? Is that something a discerning gentleman such as yourself might be interested in?”

Oh dear. This was awkward. Aziraphale knew for a fact this couldn’t be the case, seeing as how said first draft was sitting in the back room of his bookshop at that very moment. Angels weren’t supposed to be prideful, but Aziraphale was vainly pleased that it was inscribed “To my dearest Aziraphale” from Mrs. Shelly herself. So, either this man was an outrageous liar, or he had been the victim of fraud himself.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but Baron Dalrymple was already speaking.

“--although of course, it wasn’t truly Mary Shelly who wrote it. After all, I believe we both know that a woman simply could not write such a thing, don’t you agree?”

“I most certainly do not—” Aziraphale snapped, starting to get a little heated, but the Baron continued on as though he hadn’t spoken at all.

“In fact, I spoke with Mrs. Shelly before her tragic death, and she confided in me that the story was her husband’s work all along--”

Ah. So, outrageous liar it was, then. Aziraphale was actively trying to think of the simplest way to extract himself from this conversation when he noticed Crowley slinking back into the parlor from the kitchen, a drink in each hand. Indeed, slinking was the best way to describe how Crowley was moving. Crowley slunk stealthily between groups of chattering people until he was immediately behind the Baron, but Baron Dalrymple did not seem to notice in the slightest.

“Now, the common man might not have an interest in the sort of special literature I curate, but I can assure you that my taste is impeccable, as is my word on their authenticity --”

Behind him, Crowley was now pulling an extremely affected facial expression, lifting his eyebrows in a dramatic, snobbish way, and moving his mouth to mime the Baron’s words. Aziraphale had to bite his lip to keep from smiling, his eyes darting between Crowley’s increasingly exaggerated motions and the oblivious Baron. Baron Dalrymple, for his part, did not so much as stutter as he continued monologuing.

Crowley had now progressed to making a series of incredibly rude gestures and finally, Aziraphale couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He laughed loudly, which he quickly turned into a cough.

“I say old chap, are you quite all right?” said the Baron, with an expression of clear irritation from being interrupted.

“So sorry -- I believe I need to get something to drink -- a thousand apologies,” Aziraphale managed to choke out, still trying not to laugh.

He quickly moved past the Baron and a moment later, Crowley joined him. He passed Aziraphale one of the glass tumblers he’d brought back from the kitchen.

“Now that is a pompous ass if I’ve ever seen one. Here’s your drink, by the way, should help with that terrible cough.”

Aziraphale accepted the glass with an amused smile and took a grateful sip. Ah, gin! Lovely.

“Thank you, honestly, I don’t think he ever would have shut up on his own.”

“Any time, angel.”

Together, they watched the Baron move across the room in order to corner a young woman, where he launched into another speech despite the fact that she was clearly and distinctly uncomfortable. Crowley leaned in toward Aziraphale, conspiratorially.

“Don’t you think we should do something about that?”

“We? Why don’t you do something?”

“Well,” Crowley circled him, coming around to his other side and leaning in as if they were sharing something of the utmost secrecy, “You did tell me to be on my best behavior.”

Aziraphale was aware that, under most circumstances, he might have required a little more prodding before he finally gave in and acquiesced to Crowley’s temptation to cause a little chaos. At the moment, however, he was finding himself rather fixated on a very specific thought; namely, when was the last time that someone, anyone, had done something for no other reason besides making him laugh? He couldn’t come up with a single instance, and realized it probably hadn’t happened since the last time he had been with Crowley, years ago. Oh, certainly, Aziraphale had plenty of pleasant experiences with humans, both in and out of his shop, but nothing like the rush of…something that Crowley’s particular antics brought, knowing that they were performed solely for his benefit and his alone.

And now, here Crowley was again, pushing a stray red curl behind his ear and standing so close that their shoulders were almost — but not quite — touching.

It was...overwhelming.

Aziraphale took these overwhelming, flickering thoughts and pushed them straight toward the glass in Baron Dalrymple’s hand, which promptly and dramatically erupted, spilling liquor down his entire front. The Baron sputtered and stammered, going red in the face as he patted at his soaked waistcoat before stomping out. The young woman he had been lecturing looked very relieved indeed.

Now it was Crowley’s turn to laugh, and once again he absently tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear. Aziraphale wondered, idly, when he had started growing it out again.

“Well done, angel, I knew you had it in you,” Crowley said approvingly. “You were right— this is turning out to be rather fun after all.”

* * *

Indeed, Crowley was having fun, a fact that he would not have believed possible a few short hours ago.

He hadn’t had any particular plans for the day (maybe tempt a few humans, maybe initiate some minor mayhem), but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be irritated when Hell decided to send him on a pointless errand. This happened every century or so, when the humans would embark on some new religious fad and Crowley would be summarily dispatched to do a cursory appraisal of the situation. It was mainly to make sure it wasn’t some plot from Above to gain an upper hand, and each time, Crowley would inevitably find absolutely no evidence of heavenly interference. Invariably, he would only find this out after wasting the entire day and getting increasingly and spectacularly bored. (Well, other than the time he’d been sent to look into the activities of a certain Dionysian cult. Now _they_ knew how to throw a party.)

He had already committed himself to sucking it up and getting through the event as quickly as possible when, much to his surprise, he had spotted a very particular representative of heaven strolling towards him. Aziraphale was wearing his usual coat and waistcoat, with the new addition of an absolutely hideous tartan cravat. He was also wearing a pale blue scarf that, Crowley couldn’t help but notice, perfectly mirrored the color of his eyes.

 _Not_ that Crowley was in the habit of thinking about the very specific blue of Aziraphale’s eyes — surely anyone would have noticed the similarities.

Oh, who was he trying to fool. He couldn’t pretend to himself that the sight of the angel standing there wasn’t the best thing he’d seen in a long time.

Soon, Crowley realized that the day’s unexpected events had only just begun. Instead of taking his offer to blow off the investigation and have a drink at his shop, Aziraphale had suggested they postpone drinks until they had they done their requisite surveying of the scene. Crowley wasn’t exactly keen on sitting in on a seance, but he would take the opportunity. Aziraphale could be so flighty sometimes when it came to their Arrangement, and Crowley certainly wasn’t going to pass on the chance to spend more time together.

The day had only improved when he’d come back from the kitchen to find Aziraphale trapped in a conversation that he was clearly desperate to extricate himself from. Less of a conversation and more of an ignorant, one-sided rant, really. Crowley supposed he could just come up with some excuse to draw Aziraphale away, but where was the fun in that? Instead, he slunk over and began to mock the Baron’s pompous, bombastic speech.

And oh, it was worth it. The tips of Aziraphale’s ears going pink as he struggled not to laugh at Crowley’s improvised mockeries was not a sight he was likely to forget anytime soon. He took a brief second to mentally catalogue the image of Aziraphale biting back a smile and the bright blonde of his hair glowing in the soft light of the gas lamps in the hopes that he could replay this moment in his mind at a later, less happy time. That time always came, eventually.

Then, much to Crowley’s delight, Aziraphale had needed shockingly little encouragement to perform an improvisation of his own.

“Well done, angel, I knew you had it in you,” Crowley said approvingly. “You were right— this is turning out to be rather fun after all.”

Aziraphale brightened at Crowley’s praise, and they both took a celebratory drink. Gin wasn’t Crowley’s personal favorite, but at this particular moment, he found the taste suited him rather well.

The ringing sound of silverware being struck against a glass made them both turn toward the center of the room. A young, lavishly dressed man was standing by the table, arms extended in greeting.

“Welcome, everyone, welcome!”

Crowley realized that this must be the man pictured on the sign outside — Lucius Blackwater. He hadn’t noticed him come in, having been much too distracted by Aziraphale’s wonderful little display of petty revenge.

“Gather round, everyone,” Blackwater continued. “Now, I need a number of volunteers to sit with me around the summoning table, but be warned! This is not for the faint of heart, and I would encourage anyone of a more delicate constitution to simply observe. Who here has the fortitude to join me in direct contact with the spirit realm?”

Aziraphale’s hand shot into the air. This, Crowley thought, was unsurprising; Aziraphale loved audience participation and always volunteered. Somehow, he was also always selected, which seemed rather miraculous to Crowey but was, according to the angel, just his natural good luck.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at Crowley, who sighed and brought his hand up as well. Several others around the room did the same.

“Yes, very good, very good,” said Blackwater, motioning for the two of them to join him at the table along with a dozen others.

Aziraphale made a beeline for the seat directly next to Blackwater’s own, and Crowley settled in on Aziraphale’s other side. Those who weren’t seated crowded in closer around the table. The lights around them began to dim as servants walked around the room extinguishing the gas lamps, leaving only the flickering flames of a few strategically placed candles to illuminate the room.

Typical, thought Crowley. Much easier to grift a gullible crowd in the near dark. Blackwater then reached under the floor-length tablecloth and produced a large, ornate crystal ball with a flourish. The crowd _ooh_ -ed and _ahh_ -ed appreciatively.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Blackwater projected, “together we shall attempt to reach out to the world beyond our own — the spirit world. This can be a very dangerous undertaking, so please remain calm and follow my directions carefully, lest we open a doorway...that cannot be closed.”

This was all very dramatic, wasn’t it? Crowley found it extremely unlikely that this so called medium was going to conjure up anything more than headaches for everyone involved.

“Now,” Blackwater continued, “would everyone around the table please join hands?”

 _That_ caught Crowley’s attention. He was suddenly very glad to be wearing his dark glasses so no one could see the way his eyes involuntarily widened. Crowley found himself, embarrassingly, frozen. He and Aziraphale had touched hands before, but only momentarily — passing a wine bottle back and forth, or one of them tugging the other toward something of interest— but this...

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hissed, his words too loud in the quiet space. He was holding out his hand, expectantly.

Crowley didn’t know what else to do. He reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand in his own. The angel’s hand was very warm, and very soft, and Aziraphale smiled and gave a little wiggle of excited anticipation.

 _See, aren’t we having fun?_ the motion seemed to be asking.

The person on his right side had also taken his other hand, but Crowley barely noticed. His heart was thumping in his chest and he had a wild moment of panic that Aziraphale would be able to feel his rapid heartbeat through their clasped hands...but no, Aziraphale was listening intently as Blackwater continued on about the spirits, or the dead, or something or other that Crowley wasn’t really registering at the moment. Crowley tried to focus on slowing down the rhythm of his stupid, traitorous pulse.

Dancing lights began to appear in the crystal ball on the table, winking and dancing across the surface. There were gasps of awe from the watching audience.

Mirrors, thought Crowley. Lights and mirrors. Oldest trick in the book.

Next came a series of loud knocking and cracking sounds from all around them as Blackwater loudly invited the spirits to ' _Please, reach out, make your presence known'_. Everyone seemed appropriately amazed, looking around in the near-dark for the source of the sounds.

Crowley was not impressed. He’d heard of this trick before too -- apples on strings and the like, with maybe a knuckle crack thrown in for good measure. Extremely uninspired, although you wouldn’t know it from the way the people around him were reacting. One woman even cried out as though she’d seen the second coming of Christ.

So far, Crowley hadn’t trusted himself to look at the angel sitting next to him, choosing instead to take the safer route of observing the humans around them, but that changed when he felt Aziraphale’s grip on his hand suddenly tighten. He looked over, squinting through the darkness to make sure he was seeing things clearly. There was no doubt about it, however; Aziraphale looked… _frightened_.

Crowley had never seen this particular expression on the angel before. He’d seen plenty of Aziraphale’s expressions over the years; Aziraphale confused, Aziraphale distracted, and certainly Aziraphale irritated, but this....this was new.

Aziraphale was clutching Crowley’s hand now. His eyes were huge, his shoulders rigid.

Crowley didn’t understand what was happening. Aziraphale was an extremely intelligent individual, and there was no way he was being taken in by this charlatan. So what could possibly be making him so distressed?

The gas lamps in the room were re-igniting, and Crowley blinked. The seance was apparently over. He’d been focused so intently on whatever was going on with Aziraphale that he hadn’t even noticed Blackwater wrapping up his little show. The medium was now making some remarks about how the experience had drained him, he must retire to recover, but Crowley had stopped listening.

Aziraphale was still gripping Crowley’s hand, and didn’t seem to notice everyone else was leaving.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley murmured.

Nothing. Aziraphale was still looking straight ahead, blinking and looking rather bewildered.

“Angel!” Crowley said, a little more forcefully.

That did the trick. Aziraphale started as though he’d been forcefully awakened from a very deep sleep. He looked over at Crowley, then down at their hands, then back to Crowley.

“Oh!” he said, finally seeming to realize that everyone else had already left the table. “Oh, I’m sorry my dear, I...I think I need some fresh air.”

With that, he released Crowley’s hand and nearly stumbled in his haste to make it out of his chair before heading out of the front door.

Crowley rose and followed, feeling increasingly bewildered himself. What on earth was all that about? He paused to snag Aziraphale’s scarf where it had been forgotten on the coat rack.

Outside, he found Aziraphale nervously pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, muttering to himself. Crowley’s concern was growing. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen the angel so worked up.

“Aziraphale,” he started. “What--”

“You felt that, didn’t you?” Aziraphale burst out, his question coming out fast and this close to frenzied. “During the seance, you felt that, that…” he couldn’t seem to find the words he wanted, and instead gestured wildly in front of Crowley’s face.

Crowley had absolutely no idea what to say. His confusion must have been evident, because Aziraphale grew even more upset, eyebrows drawing together in distress.

“Really? You really didn’t...oh it felt _awful_ Crowley, like some sort of, well, I don't _know_ exactly what, but I sensed something absolutely wicked, and it was like it was _looking_ at me, and, and--”

Aziraphale was wringing his hands now, glancing around anxiously.

He may not have know exactly was happening here, but Crowley was determined to fix it. He was willing to do whatever it would take to make this right.

He put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, forcing the anxious pacing to stop. Their faces were close now, so close that the direct attention of Aziraphale’s wide-eyed, somewhat frantic gaze was enough send Crowley’s heart back into overdrive.

“Angel,” he said quietly, gently. “Slow down a little for me, yeah? Whatever it was, it’s gone now, right?”

Aziraphale slowly nodded, his posture starting to relax.

“All right then,” Crowley continued. “Why don’t we sit down and get some dinner. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

A tiny bit of Crowley’s worry eased as he saw Aziraphale visibly perk up at the mention of food.

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “Now that you mention it, I did pass a restaurant on the way here that looked quite scrumptious.”

 _That_ was more like it. Crowley’s hands were still on Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he casually wound Aziraphale’s scarf messily around his neck. That, to Crowley’s relief, was enough to coax a small laugh from the angel as he reached up to fix Crowley’s sloppy handwork, rearranging the scarf until it looked presentable.

“Thank you, my dear, I would hate to lose this scarf after keeping it in such good condition. It’s almost forty years old, you know. I bought it from a woman in Ireland during a festival…”

The color was starting to return to Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley was content to let the angel’s animated chatter wash over him as they walked through the city.

* * *

A few hours later they were sitting in the corner booth of a very fashionable bistro, their table littered with empty plates and glasses. They hadn’t returned to the subject of the seance yet, choosing instead to talk about their various experiences over the last few years: the books that Aziraphale had read, the gardens that Crowley had visited, and so on. Aziraphale had calmed down by now, but Crowley knew him well enough to spot the subtle hints that he was still feeling at least a little out of sorts.

Crowley kept stealing little glances at him, wondering when he was going to bring the subject back around to the seance. Crowley could be very patient, when he wanted to be, and he was willing to wait however long it took for Aziraphale to feel comfortable enough to start the discussion, but he knew they would need to discuss it eventually.

Finally, Aziraphale finished the last bite of his dessert. He fussed with his napkin for a few seconds, then caught Crowley’s eye.

“You know,” he said, a little sheepishly. “I’m starting to feel a bit silly about...earlier.”

Crowley frowned.

“Whatever you felt back there clearly affected you. It didn’t seem particularly silly to me. Why don’t you try to describe it to me now?”

Crowley leaned back and stretched his legs out under the table, waiting patiently.

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale murmured, fidgeting with his ring. “I’m afraid I’m coming up rather short on an adequate description. I suppose it was like...so, let’s say that I tried to, I don't know, _smite_ you--”

Crowley made a face.

“Don’t be dramatic Crowley, you know I would never do such a thing, this is just an example. If I _were_ to try to smite you, you would sense that I was gathering that energy before I even did anything, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, it felt a bit like that. Like some sort of power being pulled together, only it wasn’t celestial, and it wasn’t demonic, and it was focusing on me, somehow, and it felt absolutely awful.”

Aziraphale let out a frustrated sigh and dropped his head into his hands.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “It was all very confusing.”

Crowley mulled that over for a moment. He truly hadn’t felt any such energy or power at the time, but stranger things had happened.

“Are you going to report this back to Heaven?”

Aziraphale scowled. He had his elbow on the table now, chin propped up in his hand as he looked down at his plate and pushed some crumbs around with a fork.

“If I do that then I’m certain they’ll just say that I’m overreacting, and I’m really not in the mood today to be told that I'm a useless idiot with an overactive imagination.”

Something in Crowley twinged at that.

“They talk to you like that, angel?” he asked softly.

Crowley knew the hosts of heaven, with one notable exception, tended to be rather rude and abrasive, but he couldn’t help but feel a little shocked. He pictured that bastard Gabriel tossing those words at Aziraphale...at _Aziraphale_ , who only ever wanted to help, the only angel in the whole bloody lot of them that was worth a damn--

Crowley’s thoughts must have been plain on his face, because Aziraphale hurriedly forced a smile. It wasn’t very convincing.

“No need to get worked up on my account, my dear, believe me, I’m plenty used to it by now. Besides, I seem to recall you calling me an idiot on several different occasions.”

“ _That_ —” Crowley exclaimed, nearly sending an empty coffee mug flying off the table as he abruptly shifted his position to lean forward and point a finger in Aziraphale’s direction, “That is completely different!”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale asked, pointedly. “How so?”

“Because--”

 _‘Because you’re **my** idiot’_ were the words that almost tumbled out of Crowley’s mouth. He pulled them back just in time.

“Because,” he started over, “I’ve known you for a very long time. Long enough to know that you’re clever, and reliable, and if you say something strange is going on then I believe you. So, why don't we leave heaven and their unnecessary opinions out of it for now, and you and I can go poke around that house together and see if we uncover anything particularly interesting. How does that sound?”

Aziraphale’s forced smile was gone now and oh, Crowley was not prepared for the expression that replaced it. Aziraphale’s eyes had gone soft and a little bit shiny, and his lips parted slightly as he looked at Crowley with something like...well, Crowley didn’t know exactly what.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, very quietly. “That sounds…”

This was too much. There was no reason for an angel to look at him like he’d just hung the fucking moon (although, ironically, Crowley had played a part of that, orginally) just because Crowley was willing to listen to him. Beneath the table, his fingers clenched into a fist, the memory of Aziraphale’s hand in his own still achingly fresh in his mind. And here, in the present, Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed from the wine they’d just shared, his eyes fixed on Crowley…too much, too much, too much.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley cut in before he could say anything else, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s not like I had any plans for tonight anyway.” And then, because Aziraphale was _still_ giving him that _look_ , “Besides, you are an idiot if you think a tartan cravat is ever going to be in style.”

“And looking like you’re eternally en route to some extremely posh funeral is?” was Aziraphale’s immediate reply.

He was smiling again, this time not forced in the slightest. Now they were back on more familiar territory, and Crowley felt himself relax.

“How about one more bottle of wine before we go?” he asked. Aziraphale agreed that was an excellent idea indeed.

* * *

“Do we actually have a plan, or are we just going to keep skulking around all night?” Aziraphale asked, some hours later.

Crowley shrugged.

“What’s wrong with skulking? I love skulking.”

It was a fine night for it too, just cold enough for Crowley to appreciate the warm buzz of the wine as they walked along the block near the house they were ostensibly casing.

“I know you love it, and you’re very good at it,” Aziraphale said, only slightly condescendingly. “I’m just starting to think that perhaps we should have thought this through a little bit more.”

Considering that the full extent of their thinking had amounted to _‘let’s finish another bottle of wine before we walk back and see if we pick up on any particularly suspicious vibes’_ , Crowley was inclined to agree.

They had now circled the block three times and hadn’t spotted anything more unusual than an extremely fat rat eating garbage in a gutter.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, “that we could just wait until it’s empty and then let ourselves in to have a look around...oh but that would be a bit of a crime, wouldn’t it.”

He looked so concerned at this thought that Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle. He really didn’t care what they did, honestly, as long as their night together continued. But, as he had told Aziraphale that they would get to the bottom of this, that’s what they would do.

“It’s hardly a crime if we don’t steal anything. No promises on that though, I passed a few items in the kitchen that looked very stealable to me...Aziraphale?”

Crowley realized that his companion was no longer walking next to him. He turned back a step to see Aziraphale standing still, wincing and rubbing his hand across his temple.

“Ah,” he said, noticing Crowley’s attention. “Nothing to worry about. Too much wine, I imagine. Carry on.”

He caught back up easily, muttering something about sub-par vineyards.

“Anyway,” Crowley continued, a little distracted now. “If you want to have a look inside, we could make that happen, we just--”

His words were cut off by a sharp, surprised cry. Crowley whipped around just in time to see Aziraphale stumble forward, his eyes screwed shut in obvious pain. Crowley threw out his arms and caught him.

“Aziraphale!?”

Everything seemed to be happening quickly now. Crowley had one arm tossed over Aziraphale’s shoulders, the other hand flat against his chest to keep him from falling down. He could feel the rapidly increasing pulse of Aziraphale’s heart against his palm, growing more ragged with every passing moment.

“Angel--” he said, desperately, looking him up and down before glancing wildly around the empty street, seeking out a wound, an enemy, _anything_.

Aziraphale’s breaths were starting to hitch in his throat, coming out in short, erratic gasps.

“Something,” he managed to get out, his eyes wide and frantic with pain “something is -- reaching for me, it’s _pulling_ me--”

He groaned, twisting in Crowley’s grasp, slumping forward until his forehead was pressed against Crowley’s chest, fingers grasping at the lapels of Crowley’s coat. The tops of his soft curls brushed against Crowley’s chin.

“Aziraphale, it’s going to be okay, I’m going to…”

Crowley didn’t know what he was going to do. His mind was racing through a thousand possible explanations, none of which were doing him any fucking good right now because _Aziraphale_ was falling to pieces right here in his _arms_ , and Crowley had no idea what to _do_ about it.

“Just, just hang on,” he said, feeling more helpless with every passing second, “I’m here, angel, I--”

Aziraphale’s grip on his coat tightened and he made a horrible sound, like he was choking back a scream.

“Crowley,” he whispered, the words barely audible as he pressed his face even closer to Crowley’s chest, “Oh, Crowley, it _hurts_...”

Then, in the time it took for Aziraphale to finish one gasping breath and start another, the angel was gone.

One moment Crowley’s arms were full of trembling angel, and in the next, Aziraphale had simply disappeared, leaving the demon alone on the dark, empty street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apples on strings and knuckle cracks were part of what the notorious Fox Sisters used to convince people that they were communicating with the dead back in the mid-1800's. 
> 
> I can't thank charliebrown1234 enough for beta-ing this for me! My fic is definitely inspired by her fantastic series [5 Times Aziraphale Was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually Was](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1404073) so you should go check that out.
> 
> [Here's](https://www.thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com) my Tumblr if you want to be buds over there and [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ek0tMl4njBJBG3JEWA1Mh?si=eRf2lJYgQ3OZj3SW1WGEXg) is my obligatory Aziraphale/Crowley playlist as well.


	2. Chapter 2

When Aziraphale woke, his entire body was shaking. He found this rather confusing, although it wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar sensation. At some point around the turn of the century he and Crowley had both indulged in entirely too much whiskey before going off on some tangent that had them both in stitches; Aziraphale shaking with laughter as Crowley removed his dark glasses to wipe tears of mirth off his face. There had also been one particularly memorable occasion where Aziraphale had run out onto a frozen pond to retrieve a toddler that had wandered off. He had managed to shove the girl into her mother’s waiting arms before the ice had cracked and he’d plummeted into the freezing water below. There had been a great deal of shaking during the aftermath of _that_.

Was he underwater now? Aziraphale’s thoughts felt murky, scattered. He was having trouble remembering how he’d gotten here...or even where _here_ was. His head _ached_ , a new and extremely unpleasant sensation. Had he fallen asleep? Aziraphale had always been suspicious of sleeping as a general concept, but surely that couldn’t be the culprit. He’d seen Crowley drop into sleep a number of times, and he’d never woken up shaking…

Slowly the day’s events began to filter back, hazy and unsure. Had he been holding Crowley’s _hand_? That seemed much more like something out of a dream...but no, the more he thought about it, the more he remembered Crowley slipping his cool hand into Aziraphale’s own, time seeming to slow in the flickering candlelight.

He also remembered the two of them sitting in the restaurant as Aziraphale tried to calm himself after the harrowing experience of the seance. Crowley had smiled happily as he told Aziraphale about some particularly interesting roses he’d seen in a garden (where he’d only been _slightly_ trespassing) and Aziraphale had been struck by the realization that he could reach out, right then and there, and take Crowley’s hand again. He’d pictured it in his mind, wanting it so badly for one brief, electric moment... then he’d quickly discarded it, embarrassed, a foolish thought in a split second of vulnerability.

Later that evening, Aziraphale remembered shoving his hands inside his coat pockets, trying not to think about how close Crowley’s hands were to his as they strolled down the street, shoulder to shoulder.

It was then that Aziraphale had been overcome by a horrible pain, as though some great beast had sunk its claws into his chest, and --

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Where was Crowley now? Why wasn’t he here, wherever here was?

That was enough to get him moving. Aziraphale slowly maneuvered himself up onto his elbows, cringing at how the motion sent his head spinning. He definitely wasn’t on the street anymore. There was hardwood floor beneath him and a roof over his head. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, its light reflecting dimly off of something on the floor in front of him, and he craned his neck to get a better look.

There was a large, white circle surrounding him, carefully chalked onto the floor with dozens of sigils looping around its edges.

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped. He knew holding circles existed, of course, but he’d never thought he would actually come across one. They had always seemed like something from a fantasy, just part of an interesting story to read in the comfort of his shop while sipping a mug of tea. He very much wished he was back in his shop now. He reached out and cautiously tried to push his hand over the chalk line. His fingertips met complete and utter resistance; it might as well have been a brick wall.

There were footsteps behind him. Aziraphale scrambled backwards until his shoulders were pressed flat against the unyielding wall of the holding circle. The sudden movement sent a fresh wave of pressure through his head. Large white spots blossomed in front of his eyes, and he blinked them away as quickly as he could.

A large desk sat just outside the perimeter of the circle, covered in books and stray pieces of parchment. The shelves around it were cluttered too, piled high with jars and boxes of various shapes and sizes, more books, and what looked like a small pile of human bones. Aziraphale thought the room resembled an office (was this part of some shop? A warehouse, maybe?) that had been outfitted until it looked like a cross between a gentleman’s study and an arcane laboratory. An ornate, full length mirror stood next to the desk, and Aziraphale caught his own reflection in it for a moment, face pale and drawn.

The footsteps drew closer. A door near the desk opened, and Lucius Blackwater, medium, spiritualist, and leader of the seance Aziraphale had just attended strode into the room. He approached the circle and peered down at Aziraphale intently, as if he were a particularly fascinating bug in a display case at the British Museum.

“Does it hurt?” he asked calmly.

Aziraphale gawked at him. What kind of man summoned an ethereal creature and didn’t even reintroduce himself?

“Where am I?” he demanded, irritation growing with every passing second. The nerve of this man! “What is the _purpose_ of all this?”

Blackwater crouched down beside him, looking him up and down with interest.

“I suppose asking if it hurts is unnecessary,” he said, thoughtfully. “But I’ve never trapped an angel before, you see, only other humans. You seem like a scholarly sort, so I’m sure you can understand my academic curiosity here. The spell is still in its beginning stages, so I wonder, how much of it can you feel? Usually there’s screaming by now.”

In fact, Aziraphale _could_ feel magic working its way through his system -- it had started under his ribs and was now trailing throughout his limbs, a pulsing, foreign _thing _, and yes, it _did___ bloody hurt.

Aziraphale clenched his jaw, determined not to reveal his discomfort and give the bastard any satisfaction. He wondered idly how long he had been unconscious. He knew better than to hope heaven would intercede on his behalf, but Crowley… Crowley would be looking for him, wouldn’t he? If Aziraphale could just keep Blackwater talking, maybe he could stall whatever was happening here.

“So the seance...that was all for _this_?” he asked.

Blackwater laughed.

“No, no, not at all. My shows are a way to make easy money and pry information from a very gullible group of people. You wouldn’t believe the secrets people will tell you if they believe you can make a connection with their loved ones. I find out _so_ many interesting things. For example,who wouldn’t be missed if they disappeared.”

Blackwater had risen from his crouch and was now circling Aziraphale, still gazing at him with a look of utmost fascination tinged with delight.

“No,” he continued, “it was a _very_ pleasant surprise when I saw your little display with the Baron. Such raw power, and you doled it out like it was one of my own parlor tricks. I nearly leapt with joy right then and there, wouldn’t _that_ have been embarrassing?”

He smiled at Aziraphale as if they were sharing some private joke.

Aziraphale was not amused. He was, in fact, getting increasingly angry. He pushed himself to his feet, using one hand to brace himself against the invisible wall of the circle.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said through gritted teeth. He was finding standing to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. “Let me out of here this instant, or things will go very poorly for you.”

Blackwater smiled, patronizing.

“Don’t be so dramatic. Honestly, everything will go much faster if you don’t resist.”

He strode back over to his desk and began flipping open books and idly rifling through them, humming an upbeat little tune. Aziraphale took the opportunity to study the room in more detail, hoping there was something useful he’d missed. There was a painting on the wall that he hadn’t noticed before, but that wasn’t helpful. The man in the portrait looked remarkably similar to Blackwater however. Surely, the man in the portrait was at least three or four decades older though. His father maybe? His grandfather? Human ages were so difficult sometimes.

Aziraphale realized his mind was wandering. It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus. He staggered forward slightly but managed to stay upright, leaning his shoulder against the circle’s wall. He had to try to keep Blackwater busy.

“Could you at least do me the courtesy of explaining what is going _on_?” he asked. Maybe, with a little more time, he could figure a way out of this blasted circle...

Blackwater shrugged.

“It’s your basic arcane energy exchange,” he said casually. “Stage magic is all well and good for grifting an ignorant public, but the _real_ tricks require something to draw power from. It’s a simple process, really. I draw energy away from you, store it in whatever item I choose, and then I tap into it as needed.”

Aziraphale’s legs were beginning to shake again at the effort of staying upright, and the white spots were back, blooming around the edges of his vision. He bit down on his lip, determined.

“It was very considerate of you to take my hand during the seance, you know,” Blackwater continued. “It certainly made it much easier for me to get my hooks into you. Pulling you here, on the other hand, that drained the last of my reserves. But no matter! If my theory is correct, the energy that I drain from you should be enough to keep me young and hale for the next fifty years at least.”

Aziraphale blinked. His gaze flicked back to the portrait and back to Blackwater, who grinned.

“Ah yes, I had that portrait commissioned right before I was fortunate enough to come across some very interesting scrolls during a trip to Egypt. They taught me all sorts of interesting tricks, including that circle. Still...I’d rather err on the side of caution. Can’t have you wiggling out, can we?”

Blackwater bent down and started opening drawers in the desk, digging around.

“Between you and me,” he said, amiably. “This is going to be rather gruesome, and I’d prefer not to stay and watch. I’m not a sadist, after all! Besides, the atmosphere is about to get very unpleasant in here… Ah! Here we are.”

He straightened, holding a clear jar in his hands. A small, dancing flame licked against the glass, twisting and swirling inside of the small container.

Aziraphale felt his anger drain away and cold, stark fear rushed in to replace it.

“Oh, you recognize this?” Blackwater said, pleased. “Hellfire isn’t exactly easy to obtain, but special occasions call for special measures, wouldn’t you agree? I think this will do a fine job of keeping you from escaping while my spell finishes its work. I’m not sure which will kill you first, but either way, I’ll be able to store plenty of your energy before you pass beyond the veil.”

As if triggered by Blackwater’s words, Aziraphale felt the magic tug once more under his ribs, sending him to his knees with a groan.

“Like I said, this will be quicker if you relax and let it happen. It’s only going to get worse from here,” Blackwater scolded, as if Aziraphale were a particularly petulant child. He crossed to the large stone fireplace in the corner, which was packed with logs and kindling and shut the flue.

“You -- you can’t--” Aziraphale managed to get out.

“I certainly can, dear fellow, but rest assured that your death will be in the service of a greater purpose, and I shall certainly think of you fondly over the next few decades.”

With that, Blackwater unscrewed the cap of the jar and tipped out the small, wriggling flame. The stack of wood caught fire immediately and thick black smoke started to fill the room.

“Ta-ta!” called Blackwood cheerily as he disappeared through the door. There was the sound of a lock clicking into place as he left.

It took less than a minute for the first wisps to reach Aziraphale. The smoke was unbearably hot as it wafted around him, and he pulled himself as far into his coat as he could manage. If he could just keep from breathing it in, maybe he could --

There was another burst of magic, scraping inside of him like a knife, and he gasped at the sudden, slicing pain.

Smoke rushed into his mouth, his lungs, and oh God, it _burned_. Aziraphale choked, sending a spray of blood into his hands. It felt like his very heart was ablaze, and he struggled to pull his thoughts away from anything other than the searing heat.

Crowley. Crowley would come for him. Aziraphale just needed to...to…

He pulled his scarf over his mouth, knowing it would only give him a moment, but hoping that was all he needed. Aziraphale curled into himself, pressing his face against his knees as he tried to focus, bringing forth a series of memories that flashed across his mind:

_Crowley, sprawled across the armchair in the back of the bookshop._

_Crowley, sauntering over to pluck a bottle of wine from a shelf that was just out of Aziraphale’s reach and handing it down to him, smiling._

_Crowley, standing in the snow, wearing two coats and looking so unbelievably vexed that it took all of Aziraphale’s self control to keep from laughing and pulling the demon into his arms._

The smoke was all around him now, seeping through his scarf and twisting down his throat, every wracking cough sending a fresh wave of agony through his chest. Aziraphale realized, distantly, that he was weeping.

One more memory resurfaced. Had it only been a few hours ago? It felt like years.

_Aziraphale’s face pressed against Crowley’s chest, breathing in the familiar scent of cloves and something else that was distinctly Crowley as he struggled to stay grounded even as the first claws of pain had reached him. Crowley’s arms around him, his voice in Aziraphale’s ear, ‘I’m here, angel --’_

Aziraphale took that thought, took all of those memories and every confusing, exhilarating feeling that accompanied them, gathering them up along with the last shreds of his power. He flung the beacon out as far as he could, praying it would find its intended target.

It was all he had left. Aziraphale slumped over, his head striking the floor as smoke continued to pour from the fireplace.

Crowley would come for him. He would. He _would_.

It was the last thought Aziraphale had before everything went dark.

* * *

Crowley had been searching for hours. His legs were starting to ache after covering what felt like half of London on foot, tearing up and down alleys and crossing parks and side streets. Normally, he rather enjoyed being out in the city in the middle of the night when the streets were empty and quiet. Now, the still, dark air of London had taken on an almost haunted quality, and Crowley found himself wishing sunrise wasn't still hours away.

He leaned over the back of a park bench, pausing to catch his breath. He’d _never_ had trouble locating Aziraphale before, not once in six thousand years. Whenever he wanted to seek him out, Crowley would simply clear his mind and think about something he associated with the angel; sometimes it was the smell of old books, or the taste of Aziraphale’s favorite merlot, or a tune from one of the stuffy operas that Aziraphale loved to drag him to. Within moments he would be rewarded by a soft, golden glow, gently pointing him in the right direction.

Crowley pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead with a grimace, trying yet again to sense that glow now. It didn’t help that every time he tried to clear his mind he kept flashing back to that moment -- soft curls brushing his chin, Aziraphale warm and trembling in his arms, _’Crowley it hurts’, ‘Crowley it **hurts**_ ’ -- and how was he supposed to fucking focus with _that_ rattling around in his brain!?

He let out of a snarl of frustration and distantly heard cracking glass as the street lamps around him shattered under the force of his distress.

Crowley _knew_ Aziraphale was close, he could feel that much -- a tiny glimmer flickering weakly at the very edge of his senses. He would burn this whole goddamn city down if he had to, he would--

It hit Crowley like a train, knocking him to the ground.

_Aziraphale._

For one brief moment, only the barest fraction of a second, Crowley felt the glow of the angel’s presence flare in his mind before it winked out again.

It was enough.

 _The docks_ , Crowley thought, wild with adrenaline and white hot hope. _Aziraphale is at the bloody **docks**_.

He scrambled to his feet and _ran_.

* * *

There weren’t any street lamps this close to the docks, but the moon overhead was full and reflected easily off the water, lighting Crowley’s way. He had gone off course a few times and been forced to turn around, cursing, but _finally_ he was close.

Crowley reached out for Aziraphale’s presence once more and -- _there_. The third warehouse on the right. Its large loading door faced the street but Crowley moved around it to a smaller door on the side. He kicked it in easily, sending splinters of wood flying down the hallway. Past that, he could see a door on the right which had to lead to the loading area, and three doors on the left. Underneath the last door Crowley could see a thin sliver of light that churned and shifted in the gloom.

As he rushed closer, he could see the movement was caused by a layer of smoke rolling out from beneath the door. Something about the smoke seemed _wrong_ the way it swirled up around Crowley’s feet as if happy to see him, and smelled like --

A wave of cold fear washed over Crowley, knocking the air out of his lungs. Hellfire. It was fucking _hellfire_.

Crowley bared his teeth and kicked at the door, which shuddered, but held. He growled low in his throat and slammed his shoulder against it, once, twice, until finally it shattered, sending him tumbling into the room.

A wall of smoke hit him in the face, hot and acrid.

“Aziraphale!?” he called. The smoke was so thick he could barely see past his own nose. “Aziraphale, where are you?”

He could sense the hellfire more than he could see it, and a wave of his hand was enough to extinguish the flame and push the smoke from the room with a gust of wind.

Crowley had thought his body was at the limit, that it couldn’t possibly have the space to hold more fear or despair, but that was before the smoke cleared from the room and revealed Aziraphale crumpled on the floor. The angel’s clothes were coated in a fine layer of soot and ash, and the telltale markings of a holding circle were etched on the floor around him.

He wasn’t moving.

Crowley was beside him in a flash, scuffing his hands through the chalk lines before reaching out and cupping Aziraphale’s face.

“Aziraphale? Angel, please, wake up, wake _up_...”

There was blood on Aziraphale’s scarf, his mouth, the palms of his hands. What did hellfire smoke even _do_ to an angel? Crowley had no idea. Aziraphale’s skin was feverish beneath his touch.

Whoever did this was going to pay, that much Crowley knew, even if he had to rip them into fucking pieces himself, even if he had to--

“Crowley?”

Crowley’s rage abruptly dissipated and he looked down to find Aziraphale blinking up at him weakly.

“Yeah, angel, it’s me,” Crowley said hurriedly, sliding his hand from Aziraphale’s face to grip his arm. “What the hell happened here, are you--whoa, whoa, take it easy.”

Aziraphale had attempted to push himself upright but only managed to get halfway before tipping over. Crowley caught him and pulled him closer, his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“We need to leave before he gets back,” Aziraphale rasped. His voice was strained and Crowley had to lean in to catch it. “He could very well have holy water here too and I wouldn’t want...I wouldn’t--”

The rest of Aziraphale’s words were cut off as he doubled over coughing. His entire body shook with the force of it, and when he straightened there was fresh blood down his front.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

“Good lord, would you look at the state of my clothes, they’re absolutely filthy.”

Crowley didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or possibly some combination of the two. The sight of the angel’s blood splashed across his coat was completely, utterly horrifying, and yet here was Aziraphale, looking down at it with the sort of idle displeasure he normally directed toward cold mugs of tea, or potential bookshop customers.

“We can fix your clothes, I promise,” said Crowley. There was only a small hint of hysteria in his voice which he felt was very commendable under the circumstances.“Or get you new ones, whichever you like, but for the love of Satan, _what_ happened here? There’s this circle and the smoke and that incredibly creepy painting, and--and--” He realized he was starting to babble.

“-and, _all of this_?” he finished, gesturing vaguely around the room.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and seemed about to respond, when his eyes went suddenly wide. As Crowley watched, stunned, the last of the color drained from Aziraphale’s soot-stained face and he clutched at his chest.

“Oh, God, not again,” he gasped out before his expression contorted in pain and he curled forward, pressing his face into Crowley’s shoulder.

 _Okay_ , thought Crowley, _the explanations can wait because right now we are getting the **fuck** out of here_.

“I’ve got you, angel,” he said, wrapping his arms tighter around Aziraphale, who seemed oblivious to the world around him, shuddering and moaning softly.

Crowley took a deep breath. He didn’t do this very often, but there was no way he would be able to get Aziraphale home on foot, and he certainly wasn’t about to leave him here alone while Crowley tracked down transportation. No, this was the only option, and if Hell started making inquiries about why he was teleporting across half of London then he would bloody well make something up.

The air around them crackled as Crowley began to push them skyward, the thought of the bookshop held firmly at the forefront of his mind.

Aziraphale _screamed_.

Time seemed to freeze. Immediately, Crowley released his power and they snapped back, landing in a heap on the floor of the warehouse.

Aziraphale was twisting in agony, struggling to breathe.

“It won’t—“ he managed to get out, voice breaking, “—won’t let me leave.”

“What won’t let you leave!?” Crowley asked frantically. He pulled Aziraphale closer until he was half sprawled across Crowley’s lap. “Angel, what did they do to you, please, how do I fix this?!”

No response. Every ragged breath seemed to be costing Aziraphale a great deal, and Crowley wanted to scream, wanted to tear this entire building down in wild desperation.

He realized, distantly, that it had started to rain. The soft sound of water pattering against the roof filled the small room, and Crowley took a deep, steadying breath.

“Everything is going to be fine.” He didn’t know if Aziraphale could even hear him, but god dammit he had to try. “Just hold on, and we’ll be back in the bookshop before you know it.”

Then he looked down at Aziraphale, really _looked_ at him, sifting through layers of reality until he reached the ethereal plane.

Oh, this was bad.

Crowley had only seen Aziraphale’s celestial form a handful of times and it had always been radiant to the point of being blinding, but now it was scorched and dim. Even worse, Crowley could now feel the pulse of dark magic that was working its way through Aziraphale’s entire being, siphoning his life away in what looked to Crowley like a stream of faded, golden embers. Crowley’s gaze followed it as it trailed across the floor and past the desk before it settled in a cloud around the large standing mirror.

Crowley was starting to understand what was happening here. He’d heard about this sort of magic before, but to use it on an angel, _his_ angel, was nothing short of blasphemy, and Crowley hissed with fury as he snapped his vision back to normal.

The rain was building into a storm, coming down hard and fast as the wind whistled outside.

Crowley flicked his wrist and a brick materialized in his hand. He chucked it at the mirror as hard as he could from his position on the floor, but it bounced off, useless. Crowley cursed loudly.

Aziraphale let out a small, soft sob. He had gone very still, with only the occasional weak cough letting Crowley know that he was still breathing at all.

Crowley moved his hand to cup the angel’s face once more, and Aziraphale leaned into the touch, eyes closed.

“Angel, I—“ Crowley began, but there was too much that he wanted to say, too many words that threatened to spill out, urgent and desperate and full of things that Crowley shouldn’t want and didn’t deserve. Instead, he carded his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, just once, before gently easing him off of his lap. Crowley rose from the floor, determined.

His own reflection greeted him as he approached the mirror, his face dark and serious, a spot of Aziraphale’s blood standing out starkly against the pale skin of his throat.

Crowley closed his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he reached down inside himself to the heart of his power, drawing it out and wrapping it around himself like a cloak. With a rush of air his wings extended behind him, their tips brushing against the low ceiling.

He had to do this right. He had to make this count.

Images flooded his mind, all of the moments that he had so carefully collected and stored over the years.

_Aziraphale, gently coaxing a terrified kitten out from under a porch so he could carefully remove the discarded wire tangled around its tiny body. When the kitten purred in the angel’s arms, Aziraphale had beamed up at Crowley, delighted._

_Aziraphale, more than slightly drunk, excitedly recounting the plot of his current favorite novel, slipping in and out of character voices as he described his favorite parts._

_Aziraphale, fresh snow sticking to his hair and his eyelashes, looking so warm and inviting that it made Crowley ache._

And now, something was trying to take Aziraphale from him, trying to tear him to pieces right in front of him, and Crowley was not going to _let that happen_.

Crowley _snarled_ , lashing out with every ounce of power at his disposal, and slammed the bottom of his boot directly onto the mirror’s surface.

It shattered, and Crowley felt his ears pop as a wave of pressure erupted, knocking him unceremoniously to the ground.

He lay there for a moment, stunned. When this was all over he was going to sleep for a week, he thought, dizzily. No, scratch that, a _month._

“...Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s voice reached him from across the room, hesitant and unsure.

Crowley’s heart leapt. He moved quickly to his feet, folding his wings back until they disappeared. He found Aziraphale sitting up and looking around the room bewildered.

“Are you feeling any better?” Crowley asked, kneeling down beside him.

“I — I think so,” Aziraphale said slowly. His gaze landed on Crowley and he started. “My dear, you look _terrible_ , are you alright? What — what’s going on?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were unnaturally bright, his pupils blown wide.

Crowley reached out a hand and grazed his fingers against Aziraphale’s forehead. He was burning up. Crowley watched, frowning, as twin spots of color flushed high on the angel’s cheeks, a vivid contrast to his otherwise pale face.

Tentatively, Crowley extended a small amount of his will, hoping to provide the angel with some relief. The result was instantaneous -- Aziraphale shivered, closing his eyes with a whimper of pain, and Crowley felt the temperature of his skin spike even higher. Crowley snatched his hand back immediately, a wave of guilt cresting over him. _Fuck_ , he should have predicted that the remnants of hellfire clearly lingering in Aziraphale’s system would flare up if fed any demonic power.

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, opening his eyes and staring down at himself in confusion.

“Is that _blood_?” he asked, alarmed. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, and his eyebrows drew together in distress. “Oh, it’s not yours, is it?”

The concern that Crowley had briefly shed upon seeing Aziraphale regain consciousness was rushing back and he swallowed hard past a sudden lump in his throat.

He placed a reassuring hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and the angel calmed slightly under the touch. It didn’t reassure Crowley however, as he could still feel the burning warmth of the fever even through the layers of Aziraphale’s clothing.

If fixing Aziraphale through magical means wasn’t an option, then he would damn well figure something else out once they got to the bookshop.

 _One problem at a time_ , Crowley told himself.

“I’m fine, angel, you don’t need to worry. Let’s get you home, yeah?” was what he said out loud.

The smile that Aziraphale gave him in return was dazed, but entirely genuine.

“Oh, yes please,” he said gratefully. Crowley was more than happy to oblige, and a moment later they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to way too much Sufjan Stevens while working on this chapter, so hopefully that shows. 'Predatory Wasp of the Palisades" IS about Aziraphale & Crowley and yes I will die on that hill.
> 
> Our favorite duo aren't out of the woods yet, and I hope that everyone will stay tuned for the third and final chapter! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented (truly, it sustains me) and all of my love to Kazeetie and [charliebrown1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234) for their help and edits <3
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com) if you wanna be buds!


	3. Chapter 3

They tumbled into the bookshop, landing in a haphazard pile of limbs and long, black feathers. One of Crowley’s shoulders smacked into a small table stacked with books, sending its contents clattering to the floor. He winced. His aim was normally a little more precise but he didn’t usually have a passenger in tow.

Even so, Crowley couldn’t help but feel a palpable sense of relief now that they were back in the bookshop, surrounded by the familiar smell of old paper and dust.

Aziraphale was sprawled at his side, blinking up at the ceiling. Crowley sat up and offered a hand which Aziraphale took, pulling himself upright. They sat there for a moment in silence, listening to the rain beating against the roof. Crowley took the opportunity to study the angel carefully. 

A streak of lamplight stubbornly forced its way past the rain to shine through the nearest window. In its dim light Crowley could see Aziraphale’s pale face as he looked around. He seemed dazed and didn’t appear to notice the mess of books strewn around them. Crowley didn’t know if he should be grateful or worried.

“How do you feel?” Crowley asked hesitantly. 

The image of Aziraphale writhing in pain on the warehouse floor was still fresh and raw in his mind. He forced himself to resist the urge to run his hands up and down the angel’s frame to reassure himself that Aziraphale was really here, alive, and in one piece. He had an inkling that memory would be replaying itself on a loop in his nightmares for some time to come. 

Aziraphale was frowning down at the blood and soot smeared on his hands.

“Aziraphale, how do you feel?” Crowley repeated, louder this time. 

Aziraphale looked up, startled.

"Oh! Well, better, I think,” he said, and idly rubbed a hand over his chest. “It doesn’t hurt quite so much, anymore. Although...it is rather hot in here, isn’t it?”

It really wasn’t. In fact, with the frigid rain pelting the shop and blowing bitter wind against the windows it was downright cold. Under normal circumstances, Crowley would have asked Aziraphale if he’d be so kind as to light a fire and warm the place up a bit. 

The only source of warmth in the room at this moment was Aziraphale himself, heat pouring off him like a coal stove. 

Crowley ran a tired hand over his face, grimacing. He felt completely and utterly drained after destroying that blasted mirror, not to mention teleporting himself and a plus one across London, and all he wanted to do was sleep for a month. Or, maybe, skip the whole bloody winter entirely and not wake up until next March at least. 

He looked up at the sound of movement beside him to see Aziraphale rising shakily to his feet. Before Crowley’s astonished eyes Aziraphale stripped off his scarf, cravat, and coat within seconds and dropped them unceremoniously onto the floor at his feet. With the same amount of speed he reached for the buttons of his vest, fumbling a bit before pulling that off as well. He began to reach for his shoes and started to tip over before Crowley hurriedly stood and offered a steadying hand.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale murmured absentmindedly, leaning against Crowley for support as he pulled off his socks and shoes and added them to the pile of garments on the floor. 

Within moments, Aziraphale stood beside Crowley in only his trousers and his white shirt. This too was unbuttoned, but only partially, as Aziraphale had given it up halfway as a lost cause. 

Crowley couldn’t recall having ever witnessed the angel in such a state of dishevelment. Aziraphale’s bare feet seemed incongruous in the bookshop, and the shirt hanging loosely from his frame exposed a light dusting of blonde hair at the top of Aziraphale’s chest. 

Had he ever even seen Aziraphale’s collar bones before? Crowley was pretty sure he’d remember if he had. There were a few stray freckles scattered across the pale skin of Aziraphale’s chest too. Crowley swallowed, suddenly very unsure of where he should direct his gaze. Crowley forced his eyes upward and away from the sight only to see sweat beading across Aziraphale’s brow, his curls damp and sticking out in every direction.

Aziraphale braced himself against Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Eyes…” Aziraphale paused, taking in a shaky breath as he swayed alarmingly, “Eyes up, Crowley. I’m not at my… my best, at the moment.”

Crowley felt the tips of his ears blush pink, and couldn’t help but feel grateful that Aziraphale was in no condition to notice. This was all rather mortifying, wasn’t it? After all, Crowley had seen plenty of parts of plenty of people throughout his time on Earth, particularly during the centuries when humans had fewer compunctions about the concept of modesty. It was hardly a good look for a demon to get the fucking _vapors_ at the sight of an exposed collarbone.

Crowley wanted to say something clever, something cool and charming that would put him back in control of this ridiculous, overwhelming situation. 

“I didn’t--I mean, what?” was what came out.

Aziraphale staggered forward and wrapped a sluggish arm around Crowley’s waist, trapping him in a rough facsimile of an embrace. 

“I’m just sa- saying that if you’re going to look at me like _that_ … ‘M not at my best,” Aziraphale slurred on Crowey’s lapel.

Crowley certainly wasn’t cold anymore. Aziraphale was pressed against him, warm and soft, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to return the contact. The urge to to wrap his arms around the angel and hold him tightly was almost all-consuming. How many times had he imagined something just like this? More times than he cared to count, probably, but now...Well. All that mattered now was making sure that Aziraphale was taken care of, even if he deserved better than the likes of Crowley looking after him. 

Crowley sighed and settled on giving Aziraphale what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the back. 

“You’re fine, angel, we just need to get you cooled off. Let go a second and I’ll sort you out.” 

Aziraphale mumbled an affirmative and allowed Crowley to delicately detach his arm from where it had wound about the demon’s waist. Crowley took Aziraphale by the shoulder and gently steered him toward the back room of the shop, making a beeline for the sofa. Once arrived, he settled Aziraphale down before sitting beside him and miracling a bowl of cold water and a cloth into his lap. 

Gently, Crowley took the damp cloth and began to clean the ash from Aziraphale’s face, pausing occasionally to dip it back into the water and wring it out. Aziraphale looked past Crowley’s shoulder at nothing in particular, eyes glazed and unfocused. The angel was silent, but closed his eyes with relief and leaned in gratefully whenever the cool water brushed against his skin.

Crowley wrung the cloth out once more and started to bring it around for a final pass when Aziraphale suddenly reached out and curled his fingers around Crowley’s wrist, halting its movement. 

Aziraphale was no longer staring into the distance. His gaze locked with Crowley’s, their faces inches apart.

“Oh, Crowley, your eyes…” he said, dazed. 

Crowley froze. He realized abruptly that his sunglasses must have fallen off when he’d landed in the shop. He felt an immediate and overwhelming rush of guilt. He _knew_ most people found his eyes unsettling even at the best of times, yet here he was, eyes uncovered and undoubtedly even more serpentine than usual. Crowley couldn’t even imagine how frightening they must look to the feverish angel. How could he have been so thoughtless, so _stupid_ as to---

“...they’re lovely,” Aziraphale finished breathlessly. 

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, as if collapsing in on itself and leaving only this moment. Crowley thought he might drown beneath the oceanic intensity of Aziraphale’s wide, blue eyes. Aziraphale’s grip on his wrist was surprisingly strong, his touch so warm it nearly burned. 

A burst of lightning lit the sky outside, briefly illuminating the dark room with vivid white light. It was followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder, loud enough to rattle some of the books on their shelves.

Aziraphale jumped, releasing Crowley’s arm. His eyes flashed around the room wildly and his expression clouded with panic.

“Is that-- is that _hell_?” 

Before Crowley had time to process what was happening, Aziraphale had leapt to his feet and began pulling Crowley off the couch as well.

“Crowley, you have to run, please,” Aziraphale begged, his voice breaking as he tried to manhandle Crowley toward the back door of the shop. “They must have followed us here -- I knew they would punish you if they found out about us -- please, you need to _run--_ ”

Aziraphale was breathing hard, like being upright was too much effort, his eyes bright with fear. For all that he tried to push Crowley forward he was also practically hanging onto him, as though his legs might give out at any moment.

“There’s nothing--” Crowley started, but was interrupted by another boom of thunder.

Aziraphale shoved Crowley _hard_ in the direction of the back door and Crowley stumbled under the force of it. 

In one fluid motion Aziraphale pulled the iron poker from the hearth and turned his back to Crowley, planting his feet. With quick, confident movements, he tossed the poker from one hand to the next before giving one final twist of his wrist and brandishing it before him like a sword. 

“Crowley, _go_ , I’ll hold them off.”

Crowley gaped.

It was all too easy to forget that this angel, the one who loved books and fancy pastries, the one who would cross the street to offer a stranger a helping hand or to pet a friendly dog had once been a soldier, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Crowley had teased him about that title, before. 

" _And where does this Eastern Gate lead,” he had asked, grinning. “A bakery? A winery?”_

_"Not quite, dear,” Aziraphale had replied fondly. “Although, now that you mention it, why don’t we pop over to that bakery down the street and see if they have any scones left…”_

There was nothing amusing about it now. All at once, Crowley realized that he had been very, very lucky that Aziraphale had been content to just have a friendly chat with the demon who slithered up beside him outside of Eden, rather than picking a fight.

Aziraphale’s legs were starting to shake, his breathing picking up until he was nearly panting. He turned to look over his shoulder at Crowley and his face was a wash of confusion and fear and determination, the emotions rolling over and over one another. 

"I won’t let them -- I won’t --” Aziraphel groaned and began to cough, the poker clattering to the ground as he doubled over.

Crowley moved forward and tried to maneuver Aziraphale back to the sofa, but he resisted. Again, he pushed Crowley behind him, spreading out his arms as he tried to shield the demon from whatever enemies his feverish mind insisted was real.

“Aziraphale, it’s okay,” Crowley pleaded, “There’s no one here but us.”

He finally managed to pin Aziraphale’s arms down against his sides, holding him still. Aziraphale was frantic, his eyes darting to Crowley’s face then back toward the direction where the lightning had flashed.

“No, no, I can _feel_ them, Crowley, they’re coming because you saved me, they’re coming to _hurt_ you--”

Heat was rolling off of Aziraphale in waves, his pupils blown so wide they nearly eclipsed the blue in his eyes. Crowley started to panic. He’d heard that fevers could cause permanent damage to humans if left unchecked. Was the same true for angels? 

Crowley took a deep breath.

“Angel, do you trust me?” he asked, working to keep his voice measured and calm.

“Of course,” Aziraphale answered immediately. His expression was so open, so completely without doubt or guile that it filled Crowley with an emotion he couldn’t even name. 

“Then, please,” Crowley said, releasing his grip on Aziraphale’s arms and sliding his hands to the angel’s shoulders instead, “believe me when I tell you that there is no one here but us. You’re sick, and it’s making you confused. The demonic energy you’re sensing is from the hellfire, or maybe it’s from me, I don’t know, but I _promise_ you that no one is trying to hurt us. Hell doesn’t know anything about us, and it’s going to stay that way, okay?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, his rigid posture starting to relax.

“Oh,” he said, quietly. “That’s...that’s good, then.” He gave Crowley a small, tired smile. “I don’t really care much for violence, you know.” 

The smile slipped, and Aziraphale closed his eyes with a grimace as another wave of heat spiked out from his skin. Crowley felt his own panic surge in return. He needed to find a way to cool Aziraphale down, and he needed to do it _now_. Magic was off the table after his attempt to will the fever away had only made it worse, and besides, Crowley was about tapped out of magic at the moment. That only left…

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to try something but I don’t know if you’re going to like it.”

Aziraphale was fading again, leaning into Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Mmm, whatever you think is best,” he murmured before his legs gave out entirely and Crowley found himself, yet again, with an armful of Aziraphale. 

“I hope this works,” he muttered to himself.

He gathered Aziraphale up as best he could and then pulled them both through the door and into the pouring rain outside.

The first drops of freezing water hit Crowley like a sledgehammer and he sucked in a breath of air through his teeth. The bottom of his coat whipped against his legs as the wind howled down the dark street, and he took a moment (just a small one) to feel very sorry for himself indeed. Out of all the irritating, inconvenient sensations that came with having a physical corporation, Crowley particularly hated being cold and _wet_. 

He really, _really_ hated it. 

The shock of cold rain seemed to have a similarly bracing effect on Aziraphale, who staggered out of Crowley’s arms and regained his feet. He shook his head back and forth, a bit like a bird ruffling its feathers, startled. 

“This is…” Aziraphale started but trailed off, distracted, blinking rain out of his eyes. 

Water cascaded down around them, pooling at their feet and soaking into their clothes. Crowley’s layers put forth a valiant effort at slowing its progress, but Aziraphale’s thin shirt did nothing to protect him from the elements. 

Another blast of wind blew a fresh chill down Crowley’s spine and he began to shiver. 

Aziraphale, meanwhile, let out a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and tipped his face upward at the sky.

“Oh,” he breathed. “That’s _much_ better.”

Indeed, as Crowley watched, the flush began to fade from Aziraphale’s skin, trickling away alongside the rain until it disappeared entirely. Some of the tension that had built up in Crowley’s chest slowly dissolved at the sight even as he continued to shiver. He clenched his jaw in a futile attempt to keep his teeth from chattering. 

A final gust swept past as the downpour shifted into a gentle shower, quietly pattering against the street around them, and once again Crowley was struck by how disarming it was to see Aziraphale without his customary layers. Without his coat, vest, and cravat, Aziraphale seemed very vulnerable. The white shirt clung to his torso, and Crowley jerked his gaze up only to be distracted by a drop of water as it trailed down Aziraphale’s cheek to his throat. 

With an effort, he pulled his gaze even further up, just in time to see Aziraphale open his eyes. For the first time since before he’d been wrenched out of Crowley’s arms, vanishing into the night, Aziraphale’s eyes were unclouded, entirely lucid.

Aziraphale reached out and carefully tucked a loose strand of Crowley’s wet hair back behind his ear. The tips of his fingers were warm as they brushed against Crowley’s cheek, but no longer radiated feverish heat.

“Ah, there you are,” Aziraphale said, smiling. 

Crowley’s breath caught in his throat. A strange, electric feeling prickled across his skin from where Aziraphale had grazed his face and spread down throughout his chest and limbs. It felt akin to the twinge of awareness that crept across Crowley’s senses whenever he approached consecrated ground, but this was something different, something singular.

Although...wasn’t Aziraphale the closest thing to holy that Crowley had ever experienced? He was certainly more holy than any church or convent, and those had been more than enough to twist the dark, hidden part of Crowley that couldn’t bear to be near something sacred. If Aziraphale got closer, touched him again, would he catch fire? He felt certain that if those warm fingers caressed his skin again neither rain nor cold would be enough to keep him from combusting. And, really, wasn’t that what he deserved? Wasn’t that the fate that should rightly befall any demon who could look upon an angel of the Lord and suddenly _want_ so much that it took his breath away?

And oh, Crowley wanted. Aziraphale was mere inches away, soaked with rain and smiling up at him with delight, and Crowley wanted to say and do a hundred different things, each one more foolish than the last. Just how reckless was he willing to be? 

Crowley already knew the answer. He’d been down this road many times before, on all the nights when he’d been too tired or too overwhelmed to stop himself from wondering about all of the things that might have been, or that could still be. The truth was, he’d never, _never_ allow himself to be reckless enough to risk ruining what he already had with Aziraphale. It was already more than he deserved. 

“Oh, Crowley, you’re shivering!”

Aziraphale’s voice pulled Crowley from his thoughts. The angel’s eyes were blue-gray, reflecting the cloudy night sky and crinkling softly at their edges as he took Crowley’s arm.

“Let’s get you inside and out of this cold, shall we?”

Crowley had a notion that Aziraphale needed his arm for support much more than the other way around; Aziraphale’s color and demeanor might have improved, but the angel still looked as if he might collapse with weariness at any moment. If Aziraphale wanted to lean against him while ostensibly being the one to lead Crowley inside...well. Crowley was content with that. 

Crowley shut the back door behind them, the click echoing in the shop as their clothes quietly dripped onto the floor. Aziraphale moved his hand downwards to call forth a minor miracle, but nothing happened.

Aziraphale sighed, irritated. 

“So much for that, then. I hate to ask any more of you, but do you think you could…” He gestured vaguely at their sopping clothes and the small puddles of water forming on the floor at their feet. “I do believe I’ve lost enough of my dignity today without getting everything in my shop wet as well.”

‘Undignified’ was absolutely _not_ the word that Crowley would have chosen to describe Aziraphale in that moment. With his curls slicked to his head with rain, his blue eyes looked larger than usual, reminding Crowley of a wayward puppy that Aziraphale had once scooped out of the Thames. He looked downright adorable, although Crowley would discorporate on the spot before he ever voiced _that_ opinion outloud. 

Still, he acquiesced to Aziraphale’s request, snapping his fingers. A brief puff of air swirled around them, leaving them both dry as they were before they had stepped out into the storm. 

Aziraphale sank onto the sofa with sigh, pleased. 

“ _Thank_ you,” he said, buttoning his shirt back up to his neck and smoothing out some of the wrinkles. 

“You know,” said Crowley, sitting down beside him. “I bet your powers would come back faster if you got some sleep.”

Aziraphale’s expression went from pleased to petulant so incredibly fast that Crowley had to bite back a smile. 

“I’d really rather not,” said Aziraphale. “Besides, if anyone should be sleeping, it’s you. Not to be rude, but you look rather exhausted.”

Crowley wasn’t offended. He _was_ exhausted, more so than he could remember being in quite some time. He sighed. 

“Okay, how’s this,” Crowley bargained. “I will get some rest but _only_ if you do the same.” He reached across Aziraphale’s lap to snag a throw pillow and toss it onto the floor beside the sofa. 

Aziraphale bristled.

“Absolutely _not_. You are not going to sleep on the _floor_ while I-- while I--” He was interrupted by a long, pronounced yawn. He covered his mouth, startled.

“Good heavens, I don’t think I’ve ever done that before. How horrible. This entire sleeping business seems vile, I don’t know why you enjoy it so much.”

Crowley took the opportunity to slide down off the sofa and stretch out, adjusting the pillow behind his head until he was laying on his side. Satan, but it felt good to be horizontal. 

“ _Crow_ ley, you don’t--” Aziraphale started to protest. 

“Look, next time when I’m the one who’s just had a near death experience, I’ll take the sofa and you can have the floor, all right? Besides, I’ve slept on much worse places than the floor of your shop, trust me.”

Aziraphale attempted a glare, but the effect was ruined by another yawn, this one even longer than the first.

“ _Fine_ ,” he sighed, defeated. With reluctance, Aziraphale settled down across the sofa. From the floor below him, Crowley could see the outline of Aziraphale’s profile against the couch cushions. If Aziraphale rolled over onto the ground, Crowley would likely feel the angel’s breath on his neck. As it was, they were so close he could hear Aziraphale’s quiet breathing as he made himself comfortable. 

“Well,” said Crowley. “What’s your review so far?”

Aziraphale was relaxing into the cushions now, settling in.

“Not _so_ bad, I suppose,” he admitted reluctantly.

“See? Soon you’ll be taking regular afternoon naps with the best of them.”

“No need to be smug, dear.” Aziraphale’s eyes were drifting closed. “I think we can count today as a fairly unusual circumstance.”

“You know, that reminds me,” Crowley said, frowning. “Now that you’re not in imminent danger of discorporation, maybe you can finally tell me...who, or what, the _fuck_ did this to you?” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips at the expletive, shifting to get more comfortable. 

“Oh, it was that young man from the seance, Lucius Blackwater, do you remember him?” he replied airily, as if he were simply filling Crowley in on the latest neighborhood gossip. “As it turns out, he’s truly an absolute bastard, just insufferable. He was going to siphon away my essence and use it for magical power, if you can believe it.” 

Crowley sat up with a jolt. The sudden movement startled Aziraphale, who let out a disgruntled noise of surprise. 

“Good lord, Crowley, I thought you wanted to sleep--”

“A _human_ did thisss?” Crowley hissed. 

His weariness had fled, replaced with fresh, vivid rage. 

“I am going to rip his fucking _heart_ out, I’m going to rip it out with my teeth and ssshove it down his _throat--_ ”

Aziraphale yawned.

“That’s very imaginative, dear, truly evocative, but surely any outrageous murder can wait until tomorrow at least, don’t you think?”

Crowley stared at him, dumbfounded. 

“Aziraphale, how can you possibly be so calm about this? He tried to _kill_ you, he _hurt_ you. He tore you away from me and I-- when I saw you on the floor of that warehouse -- angel, when I tried to bring you home you started screaming and I thought -- I thought--” 

Crowley couldn’t go on. The danger was gone, the crisis averted, and every scrap of fear and anger and longing that he’d struggled to repress throughout the day took the opportunity to come flooding back. A distant voice in his head demanded that he get a grip, pull it together and stop making such an embarrassing spectacle of himself, but the rush of emotion was too overpowering to ignore. It was all just...too much. 

He pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his hands, wishing he could sink into the ground and disappear. 

He heard the sound of movement, then felt a warm touch on his shoulders.

“But you _did_ bring me home, in the end,” said Aziraphale. He began to rub slow circles on Crowley’s back. “I’m so terribly sorry. This has been quite an ordeal for you, hasn’t it?”

Crowley sniffed. He turned his head, just a little, to peer through his fingers and steal a glance at the angel. Aziraphale was lit with a soft glow from the first blush of sunrise rising outside of the windows, the gentle light making him look truly angelic. Aziraphale was sitting back up now, his hands continuing to press small, careful shapes across Crowley’s back. 

“I know you don’t care much for thanks,” Aziraphale continued. “But…” Aziraphale paused to clear his throat. “Well, I think we both know what would have happened if you hadn’t come for me. I’m just sorry you had to go through all that for my sake.”

“...would’ve done the same for me,” Crowley mumbled into his hands. After all, hadn’t Aziraphale been ready to defend Crowley from the imagined forces of hell with only a poker? The memory of Aziraphale’s face, frantic with fear but determined to throw himself in harm’s way, flashed across Crowley’s mind. 

“Yes, I would,” said Aziraphale. “Although I certainly hope it never comes to that. Now, why don’t we both try to get some sleep, hmm?”

He moved his hand from Crowley’s back and gently smoothed Crowley’s hair, a subtle request. Crowley obliged and lifted his face from where it had been pressed against his knees.

“I _am_ going to murder him,” he muttered, wiping his eyes. 

Aziraphale gave his arm one final, fond squeeze before he lay back down, closing his eyes.

“Let’s put a pin in that for now,” he said. “I’m sure Blackwater will get what’s coming to him. Things have a way of working out like that, you know, it’s all very--”

“If you say ‘ineffable’ I’m going to throw up,” Crowley groaned.

“Mmm, so dramatic,” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley could tell that he was already nearly asleep. 

Crowley slowly unfolded his limbs and lowered himself onto the floor. He _wasn’t_ going to sleep, he was just going to lie here and be ready in case Aziraphale needed him. Although, it probably couldn’t hurt if he closed his eyes for just a moment…

Crowley bolted awake with a start. Full, daytime sunlight was streaming through the windows now and _shit_ , how long had he been asleep? That question quickly evaporated as his disoriented mind locked onto the sound that had awakened him, and Crowley’s chest felt like it might erupt under the force of his sudden, all-consuming panic.

Aziraphale was curled into a ball, shaking as coughs wracked his frame. His hands clenched into the couch below him, knuckles white as his body almost convulsed with the force of his coughs. A splash of blood colored the sofa beneath his mouth, a shock of red on the light fabric. 

Crowley scrambled to his knees and wound his hand around the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Aziraphale, can you hear me?! _Aziraphale_?!”

The only response was another round of harsh, rattling coughs. More blood welled up in Aziraphale’s mouth and he started to choke, the sound echoing in the quiet shop. 

As quickly as he could, Crowley reached under Aziraphale and lifted, sliding onto the couch beside him. 

“C’mon angel, breathe, you have to breathe--” 

Aziraphale’s back was pressed against Crowley’s chest as Crowley held him upright, hoping the position might help as Aziraphale gasped for breath. Aziraphale bent in his grip and continued to cough. As Crowley watched, horrified, a shower of _sparks_ exploded from Aziraphale’s mouth. The sparks flared, bright and hot, before winking out of existence.

Aziraphale fell back against Crowley’s chest with a whimper of pain. Once again, heat was pouring off of his skin like a furnace, his hair damp with sweat where it brushed under Crowley’s chin. 

With an effort, Crowley shifted his gaze to look at Aziraphale’s ethereal form, cursing himself for not thinking to do this earlier. His worst suspicions were immediately confirmed -- a burning, scorched mass of energy was pulsing at the center of Aziraphale’s chest. 

The fucking _hellfire_. The cold bookshop and the even colder rain must have only forced it dormant for a while, but it had never been truly gone. Crowley let out a snarl of frustration as he snapped his vision back to normal. 

Aziraphale had stopped coughing. In fact, he had nearly stopped breathing entirely, and Crowley had to place a shaking hand on Aziraphale’s chest and feel the almost imperceptible rise and fall to know that he was still taking in air at all. His heartbeat was ragged and weak beneath Crowley’s palm.

“No, no, _no_ , angel, please,” Crowley pleaded, but Aziraphale seemed beyond understanding, lost in a haze of fever and pain. His eyes fluttered open briefly, but there was no recognition in their depths. When Aziraphale’s eyes closed, Crowley had the sudden, horrible realization that they might not open again at all. 

Crowley only had one idea, one desperate, wild plan. He thought back to how the smoke in the warehouse hallway had danced around his feet as if glad to see him, how the hellfire in Aziraphale’s system had flared at the touch of his demonic power as if rushing out to greet him. Hellfire was instinctively drawn to demons, it _wanted_ to be near them. Maybe Crowley could draw it out of Aziraphale now, could tempt it to find a better, more hospitable host. 

It was the only chance he had.

Crowley slid out from behind Aziraphale, carefully lowering the angel’s head and shoulders back onto the sofa. Aziraphale’s breath continued to hitch in his throat, coming out in starts and stops. Another few sparks escaped his mouth and he shuddered, moaning quietly. 

Crowley knelt down on the floor beside the sofa.

“You’re-- you’re going to be fine, angel,” he said softly. He cupped his hand around Aziraphale’s face. “Just...come back to me, okay?”

With that, Crowley lowered his own face and gently, cautiously, pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s. 

Crowley drew in deep, pulling the air from Aziraphale’s lungs and feeling the hellfire respond immediately as it sensed his demonic presence. He had to resist the instinct to pull away as it rushed down his throat and into his lungs.

It tasted, faintly, of Aziraphale. 

Well, how Crowley imagined that Aziraphale might taste, anyway-- like bread and wine and sunlight, all mixed together with the harsh, bitter taste of smoke and ash. The smoke swirled inside his chest, absorbing uncomfortably but harmlessly into his system. He continued to summon it forth until he was sure that every particle was pulled from Aziraphale’s lungs and into his own. 

Slowly, Crowley moved his face away, trying not to dwell on the fact that this was certainly the only time he would ever feel the press of Aziraphale’s mouth against his own. He leaned back and folded himself into a sitting position on the floor at Aziraphale’s side, reluctant to put any more space between them than he had to. 

Relief coursed through him as he did a quick check of Aziraphale’s ethereal form once more. No trace of the hellfire remained. As Crowley watched, Aziraphale’s form began to glow brighter as it began the slow process of repairing itself. The golden light continued to grow in intensity until Crowley was forced to look away and shift his vision back to normal.

Aziraphale stirred, opening his eyes and blinking dazedly. He looked weary, but the tight lines of pain had vanished. 

“Crowley...what...what just happened?” he asked. His voice was low, rasping, but it sounded like music to Crowley’s ears after hearing the angel struggling to breathe only minutes before.

“You don’t remember?”

Selfishly, Crowley hoped that Aziraphale _didn’t_ remember. If he did remember, or if he wanted to (Satan forbid) _talk_ about it, would Crowley be able to hide all the foolish, useless desires that were currently storming across his mind? 

He was saved from having to find out. 

“No, I don't remember, really,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, propping himself up on his elbows until he and Crowley were nearly face to face. “I must have fallen asleep, but then everything started to _hurt_ and I seem to have...lost track. Care to fill me in?”

“The, uh,” Crowley stammered, suddenly feeling very self-conscious under the weight of Aziraphale’s gaze. “The hellfire was, uh, was still in your lungs and-- you-- well, I - I fixed it.” 

_Great job Crowley_ , he groaned inwardly, _very smooth_ , but Aziraphale just nodded, yawning. His head was starting to droop toward the sofa cushions. 

“Mmm, you are very good at that. Fixing things, I mean,” he said sleepily. “I do believe it’s all cleared up now. I can even feel my powers coming back, although it may still take time to be back at full capacity, as it were.”

“Are you sure?” asked Crowley, a little anxiously. The last thing he wanted to do was prematurely let his guard down yet again.

Aziraphale hummed a small affirmative noise and waved his hand lazily. A thick blanket materialized in the air before dropping down around Crowley’s shoulders.

“Really, angel?” Crowley said as he fingered the soft fabric. “You finally get some celestial power back and the first thing you think of is tartan?”

Aziraphale had given up on propping himself up, letting his eyes slid shut as his head dropped back onto the sofa. 

“...looked cold, my dear. Should...get some sleep,” he murmured. A moment later, his breathing evened out into a slow, measured rhythm. 

Crowley pulled the blanket tighter around himself and stretched back out on the floor. He was so exhausted it felt like even his bones were tired. He let his heavy eyes shut and let the sound of Aziraphale’s gentle even breathing lull him to sleep. 

* * *

Aziraphale’s first thought was that he’d had enough of this wretched waking up business. It was an entirely unpleasant experience to open one’s eyes and have no concept of how much time had passed since closing them. It was a wonder that humans managed to get anything done while having to deal with this disorienting process every single day. 

His second thought was that he could have _sworn_ he’d put this blanket on Crowley, and yet here it was, pulled up to his own shoulders and tucked in against the back of the sofa. 

Aziraphale pushed himself upright to lean against the arm of the couch and instantly missed the blanket’s warmth over his torso. While the backroom was full of sunlight, there was still a distinct autumn chill in the air. It didn’t help that he was only dressed in a thin shirt and trousers. Aziraphale blushed as he recalled stripping off his layers in a feverish attempt to cool down. How completely undignified. He hated to even guess at what Crowley must have thought about--

Crowley. Aziraphale pulled himself all the way up and scanned the room, feeling an unsettling sense of deja vu. The last time he had woken up this disoriented was on the floor of that dreadful warehouse. Thank _heavens_ he was waking up in his own shop this time. Although, really, heaven hadn’t been involved at all, had they? He only had Crowley to thank for making it back home.

Aziraphale swung his legs off of the sofa in preparation to stand and felt something crumple against his chest.. He looked down to find a piece of parchment pinned to the bottom of his shirt. He plucked it off and held it up to the light. 

_Went to run a few errands. Your clothes are clean and folded on the desk. Unfortunately the tartan cravat was beyond saving and had to be destroyed. Do not even THINK about leaving this bookshop before I get back!!!!!!!!_

_-C._

A doodle of a small cartoon Crowley (complete with dark glasses and tiny devil horns) was crowded next to the exclamation points, brandishing a pitchfork for extra emphasis. 

Aziraphale smiled. He carefully folded the note and tucked in the pocket of his trousers before moving to the desk. His clothes were there as promised, without a speck of dirt or soot on them. Aziraphale gratefully buttoned the vest before slipping into his coat, relishing in the feeling of completeness when everything was finally in place. The missing cravat was no problem at all; Aziraphale had three other nearly identical ones upstairs. He was just about to go and retrieve one when he heard the door opening out at the front of the shop.

He hurried toward it, hoping desperately it wasn’t a customer. While he was feeling marginally more oriented, he was nowhere near ready to chase off some curious human interested in walking off with one of his books. 

To his relief, he arrived to find that it was only Crowley, struggling to maneuver his way through the door. He was carrying a stack of wrapped parcels of various shapes and sizes as well as several bags slung over his arms, and he had to shimmy backwards into the shop to keep anything from spilling. Aziraphale started forward when one of the stacks of parcels started to wobble precariously, but a heated glare from the demon was enough to keep them from actually falling. 

Crowley turned and noticed Aziraphale watching his balancing act in the doorway. His face split into a grin.

“Hey, angel. Good to see you up and about, finally. Get the door for me, would you?”

The sight of Crowley’s wide, relaxed smile was like a lit hearth on a cold day, and the warmth of it settled down into Aziraphale’s chest like a cat curling up next to a warm fire. 

The top few parcels had begun to tip again, and Aziraphale quickly crossed the room and straightened them before they could crash to the floor. 

“What _is_ all of this?” he asked, closing the door behind Crowley before following him into the back room. 

“Well,” Crowley said, dumping his armful of parcels unceremoniously onto a table. “It’s feed a fever, starve a cold, right? Or is it the other way ‘round...Anyway, I figured you’d be hungry when you woke up. I didn’t know what you’d want so I just got a little of everything.”

Crowley began to sort through the items, pushing them around on the table. 

“Let’s see, I got some sandwiches, fruit, cheese... I think there’s a shepherd’s pie in here somewhere…” 

Crowley continued to list off the various items as he unpacked the food onto the table, but Azirphale found himself tuning out. The sight of the demon laying out food he’d brought specifically to make Aziraphale feel better… He found himself wanting nothing more at that moment than to throw his arms around Crowley’s neck and tell him...what, exactly? Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but he knew it would be something that no angel should be voicing to a demon, and would only serve to make Crowley flinch away, as he often did when Aziraphale forgot himself and allowed too much praise to slip into their conversation. 

Aziraphale was certain that he must have made Crowley uncomfortable enough already. How many times during this whole ordeal had he practically fallen into Crowley’s arms, his mind too hazy to even consider how disagreeable that might have been for the demon? It was a wonder that Crowley hadn’t run for the hills the moment that Aziraphale finally fell asleep. 

Crowley was looking at him curiously. “Aziraphale? Are you alright?” 

The jumble of words spinning through Aziraphale’s mind as he looked at Crowley’s familiar, dashing features ( _wonderful, dear, more than I deserve)_ were undoubtedly the last thing that Crowley would want to hear right now. 

What came out of Aziraphale’s mouth instead was a surprise even to himself.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry.”

Crowley frowned. 

“Sorry for what?”

Now that he’d started, the words came rushing out of Aziraphale almost before he’d had the time to think them. 

“This was all my fault. If I’d just listened to you we wouldn’t have gone to that seance in the first place and none of this would have happened--”

Crowley sighed.

“Aziraphale--”

“--you wouldn’t have had to rescue me from Blackwater, and I know you’d be in _such_ trouble if your side found out--”

“ _Aziraphale_!”

This time Crowley punctuated the word by pulling an apple from one of the bags and lobbing it in Aziraphale’s direction. 

Aziraphale caught it reflexively, startled into silence. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Crowley said. His voice was soft but firm. “You had no way of knowing what was going to happen, all right? You can’t be faulted for not predicting that the seance would be anything other than an entertaining diversion.”

“It had been shaping up to be a rather nice evening, hadn’t it?” Aziraphale said ruefully, turning the apple over in his hands. “Before things went wrong, I mean.”

“Yeah, angel, it was,” Crowley said, fondly. “Oh, that reminds me!” 

Crowley reached into another one of the bags and dug around for a moment before pulling out a newspaper. He slapped it down onto the table with a flourish. 

“Take a look at _that_.”

Aziraphale’s gaze went immediately to the date printed across the top of the newspaper and he let out a squawk of surprise. 

“A week!? I was asleep for a _week_?”

Crowley shrugged.

“So what? I sleep for a week all the time, and you clearly needed the rest.”

This was outrageous. Aziraphale was _never_ going to sleep again. 

“So _what_ ” he said unhappily. “What about my shop? What about _Heaven_ , they’ll be wondering why I never sent in a report!”

Crowley was busy unwrapping another package, this one containing chocolates. He popped one into his mouth and spoke around it as he chewed.

“Shop was easy, I just put out the “closed” sign and whenever someone came sniffing around I told them to piss off and never come back. Don’t make a face at me, Aziraphale, I know that’s exactly what you’d say to all of your customers if you had the nerve for it.”

Crowley swallowed and selected another chocolate. This time he grimaced as he chewed.

“Ugh, coconut. Disgusting. Anyway, I spread a few well-placed rumors that I was stirring up some particularly _nefarious_ trouble around town and you were too busy valiantly attempting to thwart me. Heaven won’t even bat an eye at your late report.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Thank--”

“None of that,” Crowley said, waving his hand. “Here, look.”

He gestured again toward the newspaper and Aziraphale studied it more closely this time. The headline splashed across the cover read: 

**“A Ghastly Mystery! Unidentified Corpse Found in Home of Missing Medium!”**

A quick scan of the article revealed that, according to local authorities, Lucius Blackwater had been declared missing. A search of his home had uncovered no hint of his whereabouts, only a horrifying discovery -- a withered, ancient-looking corpse, which was clearly too old to be Blackwater himself. Investigations were still ongoing.

“Can you believe that?” Crowley exclaimed, glowering. “The bastard didn’t even do me the courtesy of letting me tear his limbs off or _anything_ , he had to go and die when I broke his bloody mirror.”

Aziraphale flipped the newspaper over. A smaller article on the back mentioned that Scotland Yard was still asking for any information pertaining to the fire that had burned down a warehouse near the docks earlier that week. The article remarked upon how miraculous it was that such a large, intense fire reduced an entire building to ash while leaving every other structure on the street completely untouched.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and gestured at the article. 

“I had to blow off steam _somehow_ ,” Crowley said, irritated. “Considering how I was robbed of a perfectly good opportunity to murder someone. Here, eat, I know you want to.”

Everything tasted absolutely wonderful. One of the perks of not eating for a week, Aziraphale supposed. Crowley picked at a few items but left most of it alone. They chatted idly as Aziraphale ate, about nothing much at all. How the weather was getting colder, and if Crowley was finally going to cave and wear some ear muffs this winter, despite how unstylish he found them. 

Once Aziraphale was done he gathered up the remaining food, packing it away for later. Crowley hovered nearby, hands shoved into his pockets and looking anxious. Over the course of the meal, he had begun to look more and more unsure of himself. 

At first, Aziraphale had been confused, even concerned, before he finally realized -- this was normally about the time Crowley would leave. There was no immediate, pressing concern to address, their meal was finished, and their business had been taken care of.

Only...Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley to leave. He didn’t think Crowley wanted to leave either -- he continued to linger in the shop, fiddling with loose parcel wrappers as Aziraphale tidied up instead of making his usual grand exit 

Crowley was waiting for a reason to stay, and more importantly he was waiting for Aziraphale to provide it. Aziraphale wanted to tell him that he didn’t _need_ one, that the pleasure of Crowley’s company alone was more than enough of a reason as far as Aziraphale was concerned. 

But that wasn’t the reality of their situation, was it? If Aziraphale allowed himself to examine how _much_ he wanted Crowley to stay with him for even just a few hours more, where would that leave them? Nowhere good. It was much too dangerous. Better to stay within the careful, acceptable confines of the Arrangement they’d both grown accustomed to. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“You know,” he said, working to keep a casual tone. “You should probably fill me in on these rumors you’ve been spreading all over London. It wouldn’t do for me to be in the dark about all the thwarting I was supposed to be doing this past week.”

Crowley’s expression brightened for a moment before settling back into his usual devil-may-care demeanor. He leaned his shoulder against a bookshelf, crossing one ankle over the other. 

“Sure, if you think so,” he said, shrugging. “We might as well coordinate our reports on Blackwater too while we’re at it.”

“This might take some time...why don’t I fetch us something to drink?” Aziraphale said, gesturing towards the back room. 

“Something strong if you don’t mind, angel. It’s been a long week.” 

“I couldn’t agree more, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. 

As Crowley sauntered toward the sofa in the back room, Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath. Slowly, almost cautiously, he allowed himself to stop worrying about what he should or shouldn’t be feeling. He was happy, and he wasn’t going to let any thoughts of Heaven or Hell stop him from basking in it, from savoring every second of it. Not today, at least. Aziraphale was safe at home and, best of all, Crowley was here with him, waiting patiently for Aziraphale to return with a bottle for the two of them to share. 

For now, that was enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that on that! I hope you enjoyed the final chapter and if so, I'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> I listened to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vx9_FIIH-UM) a LOT while writing this chapter.
> 
> Don't forget to hit me up on [Tumblr!](https://thepaisleyelf.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Finally, a very special shout out to my partner in crime, my co-conspirator [charliebrown1234](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234). Charlie, it's been a blast. See you around in the next Google doc, babe <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Something Wicked [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249074) by [originblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/originblue/pseuds/originblue)




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